


Set Yourself on Fire

by Haepherion



Category: Captain America, Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Everything Hurts, Nick Fury Lies, Not A Fix-It, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:12:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haepherion/pseuds/Haepherion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I promise you, I’m not going to let anything hurt you,” Steve chokes into the darkness, and it sounds fake even to his own ears. He’s given up on thinking that his platitudes hold any worth, but they’re all he has left. </p><p>Written for <a href="http://stevebucky-fest.dreamwidth.org/307.html?thread=8499">this prompt</a> at <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/collections/stevebuckyfest">stevebucky fest</a></p><p>Translation into German by Shayanna can be found <a href="http://www.fanfiktion.de/s/53dd90790002c0b92985cf8f/1/Set-Yourself-On-Fire">here</a>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set Yourself on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt:
> 
> SHIELD's brutal post-Winter Soldier debriefing breaks Bucky's mind, and Steve leaves to care for him. He misses saving the world sometimes, but not enough to leave Bucky's side -- not enough to go back to the organization that did this to him. 
> 
> As for the ending/level of devastation, maybe Bucky slowly comes back to himself with Steve's staunch support, and after years of anguish and setbacks and struggling, he and Steve finally get some version of their happy ending, which was probably always going to include night terrors; maybe he languishes, mad with fear, because Steve could never bring himself to put Bucky out of his misery, even though he knows he's just being selfish by keeping Bucky alive; maybe Bucky regains bits of himself, but never enough to cobble together any kind of whole, just enough to break both their hearts daily.

 

            Outside Steve’s window, the setting sun paints a brilliant red across the sky. Clouds of pitch-black smoke and dust obscure the city skyline enough to where it doesn’t hurt to look directly into the rays of light. Or at least, what’s visible of the skyline. New York is burning, bits and pieces of the Empire State Building breaking apart and tumbling to the ground. Steve reckons that if they were a little closer to the heart of the city, maybe he would be able to hear people screaming for help, maybe even screaming for Captain America.

 

            It’s a thought that he doesn’t like thinking about.

 

            A tiny streak of red-gold flashes frantically across the sky, lighting rains down from the storm-less smoke clouds, and Steve knows that the Avengers are sorely missing him right now.

 

            He wonders if they’ll win this battle, and is little surprised to come to the conclusion that he doesn’t really care if they do.

 

            Let them burn.

 

            A choked cough comes from somewhere behind him, so quiet that Steve probably wouldn’t have heard it if he didn’t have super hearing. Steve tenses, immediately heading towards the bedroom.

 

            He pauses outside the door, listening for anything else. Another choked whimper. Steve takes a deep breath and knocks three times, spaces the knocks evenly apart. One, two, three, not too loud, but loud enough to where it can’t have been just a figment of someone’s fevered imagination. The whimpers cease immediately, and Steve shuts his eyes.  _Shit._

There’s frantic scuffling from inside, and Steve doesn’t waste another second. He forces the door open with his shoulder, not bothering to try the doorknob. He knows from experience that it’ll be locked tight.  

 

            Illuminated by a sliver of light coming from the hallway, Steve steps into the darkness of the room. There’s a shape buried underneath the blankets, trembling. “…Bucky?” Steve whispers hesitantly into the darkness, and the trembling stops. It’s dead silent for two beats while Steve holds his breath, praying that maybe-

 

            “No…no…please, not him, not him, please,” Bucky sobs, and Steve bites his tongue hard enough to replace the sting of tears with the taste of blood.

 

            “Bucky, it’s okay. There’s no one here except me. You’re safe,” Steve murmurs in a low tone, inching very slowly towards the bed, “You’re safe here, promise. Just me.”

 

            There’s no reply, but Steve knows by the way Bucky bites back violent sobs that he doesn’t believe a word. Steve’s kneeling at the edge of the mattress now, careful not to move closer to the center where Bucky is curled. There’s just enough light spilling from the hallway to see the huddled form, and Steve tries not to think of how very small Bucky looks.

 

            He doesn’t say anything, just sits back on his heels and waits patiently. There are rules to this game, and Steve’s careful not to break them. It’s taken him months and months to learn just how many shadows there are, and even now he wonders if he’ll ever find an end to them.

 

            Steve doesn’t say anything else. Steve doesn’t reach out a hand to reassure Bucky, like he desperately wants to.

 

            Fifteen minutes pass before the shaking ceases. Not because it’s okay now, Steve knows, but because Bucky no longer has the energy to.

 

            The room is deathly silent and Steve gathers up the little shreds of courage he has left and whispers “Bucky” into the darkness. The word curls around the room like an echo. There’s no answer. There are no pained whimpers either, but that doesn’t mean much. Bucky suffers in quiet exhaustion, and Steve has learned to fear the silence more than anything.

 

            “Can I see you,” Steve phrases it in a natural tone, doesn’t add a questioning tone to the end of it. He leaves the option of saying no, because God knows that Bucky’s been deprived of that opportunity for much too long, and Steve sure is hell isn’t going to be the one to take it away again.

 

            There’s a miniscule movement under the blankets, enough that it might have been a figment of Steve’s imagination, but it’s there. Steve feels hope flare deep in the pit of his stomach. He squashes it as best he can. It’s not good to wish for things that’ll never be.

 

            He lays his hand flat on the mattress, slowly, slowly, slowly reaches until its resting right next to the covers. Still no movement, and Steve reminds himself to breathe. Reminds himself that no matter what happens, it’ll all be alright. He doesn’t think about that statement too hard, because if he does he’ll realize the absurdity of it all. The last thing Bucky needs is Steve laughing himself into insanity.

 

            Steve peels the top of the blanket away with practiced deliberation, gentle enough that Bucky can pull them back if he wants. He doesn’t, and Steve bites back the urge to whoop with triumph because tonight, maybe all isn’t lost.

 

            Bucky is stone still under the covers, curled into a tight ball, his head tucked under his arms, his hands wrapped around the back of his neck. Steve feels sick at the sight, has seen it enough times to know that at some point Bucky’s wrapped himself in this exact way trying to protect himself from whatever tortures they used to hurt him. This is always the hardest part.

 

            Steve waits.

 

            Sometimes it takes hours before Bucky uncurls. Sometimes he doesn’t at all, just falls into a drained and restless sleep, coiled tight.

 

            Sometimes he sobs himself sick with terror, vomits on the sheets and screams and begs and cries. Those days, Steve fingers itch for a trigger, and thinks that maybe keeping them both bound to this earth is the worst cruelty of all. Maybe he’s living under the false hope that some day the universe will cut them some slack.

 

They’ve always said Captain America is an optimist.

 

            Steve learns not to count the time. It doesn’t matter, when it comes to Bucky. He’s all that Steve has left, anyway. When it comes to Bucky, he would trade another 70 years under the ice if it could replace the time Bucky spent with SHIELD.

 

            Some time later Bucky shifts until he’s lying on his back, eyes squeezed shut. Steve is silent and still—he’s learned that the safest way to play this game is to be slow and not startle.

 

            “I’m here, Buck,” he eventually cracks the deafening silence, and hopes to hell it’s the right thing to say.

 

            A beat.

 

            “Don’t wanna look at you, Stevie,” Bucky croaks, and Steve’s glad that Bucky’s eyes are still firmly shut, unable to see Steve’s carefully mâchéd façade crumble.

 

            Steve waits for him to say something else.

 

            “Why can’t you look at me, Buck,” he murmurs, and tries not to make it sound like a plea.

 

            “Cause…’cause you’re not real, S-Stevie,” Bucky stutters on his name, and it sounds like he’s trying very hard not to cry. “’Cause they’re gonna take you away from me, ‘cause they’re gonna mess you up, gonna hurt you real bad, even after I tell them I don’t remember anything,” Bucky takes a sharp breath in and swallows hard. ‘Cause I know you’d never hurt me, but they make you hurt me.”

 

            Swallowing the bile pushing up his throat, Steve balls his hands into fists and thinks about the ways he’d like rip Fury in half, if he ever sees him again.

 

            "They keep making me remember things...keep using you t-to,” Bucky gasps like he’s drowning, hands grabbing invisible wounds on his chest. “Try to make me tell them things that I never did, and then I remember, but none of it’s right…I…I,” Bucky sobs in a breath and falls quiet, and Steve needs so badly to reach out and push away the terrified tears he knows are leaking out of Bucky’s cloudy eyes.

 

            “I promise you, I’m not going to let anything hurt you,” Steve chokes into the darkness, and it sounds fake even to his own ears. He’s given up on thinking that his platitudes hold any worth, but they’re all he has left.

 

            Bucky laughs with a manic sort of glee, and the noise scrapes like broken glass over Steve’s raw nerves. “Gee, sure haven’t heard THAT one before.”

 

            On impulse, Steve reaches out to touch the side of Bucky’s face. The reaction is instantaneous; Bucky violently flinches to the side like he’s been pistol-whipped, scrambling to get away.

 

            “Oh shit, no, Bucky, I’m sorry, I just-“ Steve reaches out in the dark and touches what feels like Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky shrieks like Steve’s touch burns, screams bloody murder, and Steve leaps off the mattress and out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

 

            In the darkness, Steve weeps.

 

***

 

            Steve catches a glimpse of his face in the warped shine of the silver faucet. Logically, he knows that he doesn’t really look a day over 26, his chiseled face all but immortalized by the serum, aging at a snail’s pace. But his eyes tell a much different story.  

 

            Steve finishes washing his face before drying his hands and taking a deep breath. Another day. He’s long since stopped keeping track of the exact days. Seasons roll and blend into each other, the only indicator of time the changing colors outside the windows. Green trees in the summer and spring, red brown leaves in the autumn, and grey snow in the winter. There is no world outside the four walls of the apartment. The rest of the world outside doesn’t hold any interest for Steve. Not anymore.

 

            He swipes the small towel over his face, hangs it back on the rack, and methodically strips out of his clothes. Turns on the shower, steps into the spray, and pulls the curtain shut.

 

            Routines are easy to understand. Every morning Steve wakes up, checks in Bucky’s room before locking the doors and going to the rec room in the basement of the apartment complex. (Bucky’s always asleep.) Runs off the seemingly endless energy in his body before going back upstairs and showering. Checks on Bucky again (sleeping), and makes breakfast. He eats, and if Bucky hasn’t eaten the night before, Steve tries to wake him and feed him some food.

 

            Sometimes Bucky takes the food, wolfs it down like he’s been starved and it’s the last meal he’s getting. More often than not he pushes it away with a distrustful glare or worse, a fearful expression. Steve doesn’t want to think about the reasons behind those looks.

 

            (“It’s poisoned. I’m not falling for that one anymore,” Bucky snarls. The hunger in his eyes and his stick-thin arms say otherwise, and Steve aches with trying to convince him the food is safe.)

 

            In the afternoon, Steve sits by the window and reads a book, or walks around the small living space tidying the already immaculate rooms. They don't get visitors.

 

            Steve used to sketch to fill in the empty spaces in the afternoon. He doesn’t anymore. There is no inspiration that doesn’t exist in the form of monsters that Bucky begs to stop hurting him. Steve never fully read the files SHIELD wrote on the time that they “de-briefed” Bucky. Steve figures out enough of the details on his own from Bucky’s delirious pleas.

 

            (“You can tell them to stop now,” Bucky rasps one night, when Steve is rubbing gentle circles between Bucky’s hunched shoulders.

 

“What?” Steve asks softly.

 

“Tell them to stop making you be nice to me, because I know you’re going to stop soon.”

 

“No one’s going to hurt you, Bucky.”

 

“I already told them, I don’t remember. I swear I don’t.”

 

“I believe you, Bucky,” Steve whispers. It’s the best he can do.)

           

            In the afternoons, Steve makes a late lunch and eats alone. If Bucky hasn’t eaten breakfast, Steve tries to make him eat something. Then, Steve reads.

           

            There’s a bookshelf that covers an entire wall in Steve’s bedroom full with hundreds and hundreds of books. Steve’s read every single one of them, but doesn’t remember any of them after he’s read them. His eyes skim the words along the pages, just as easily forgotten.

 

            Steve’s days are measured by the amount of times Bucky wakes up from his nightmares.

 

            (“Steve, please, you gotta help me,” Bucky cries one evening, holding Steve’s hands in his own in a death grip. “Quick, while they’re gone, hurry!”

 

            “What, what?” Steve says desperately. Anything to help Bucky is worth it.

 

            “They’re gone right now, aren’t they? Snap my neck Steve, quickly,” Bucky begs, hope shining bright in his eyes. “Ha! Those fuckers can’t get me anymore, right Steve? Can’t bring me back from the dead, it’ll be over. C’mon Steve, please, please…”

 

            Steve stares in horrified silence, and doesn’t even realize that this is the first time Bucky’s spoken more than a few sentences in months.)

 

            Steve goes for a run before he makes dinner.

 

            Rinse and repeat.

 

            Steve used to worry about the insane amount of time Bucky spent asleep. Used to worry that some day he’d just slip into a coma and never wake up. Steve figures that maybe, that’s the best option they have.

 

            (Steve tiptoes into Bucky’s room one day. Bucky’s still under the covers, and doesn’t even react when Steve peels them back. For a second, Steve’s heart freezes in his chest. Bucky looks dead.

 

            And he’s smiling.

 

            Steve checks his pulse (still there), but Bucky doesn’t wake, a full out goofy grin plastered on his face.

 

            Steve is terrified, and then it all clicks. Bucky’s nightmares aren’t really nightmares at all. When he’s awake, he believes he’s being held by SHIELD. He uses his dreams to escape.)

 

            Steve finishes showering and dries himself before pulling on a clean set of clothing and making his way out towards the living room.

 

            He turns the corner and freezes.

 

            Bucky is sitting on the couch.

 

            This is not part of the routine. Steve feels his heart hammer against his chest.

 

            “Bucky? What are you doing?”

 

            Steve walks steadily over to the couch, fingers trembling. This is not normal. This is not alright. Something is wrong.

 

            He breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees Bucky is still alive and breathing. The next thing he notices is that Bucky is mostly naked. The next thing after that is that Bucky is emaciated, skin drawn tight across his cheekbones, rib bones clear on his chest. Steve mentally curses himself for not taking better care of Bucky. For not being able to fix his problems, for not being able to save him before he became like this.

 

            “Hi, not-Steve,” Bucky says calmly, like it’s the most natural thing for him to be sitting mostly naked on the couch in the living room.

 

            “Are…are you alright?” Steve hesitates, and swiftly attempts to kill the hope fluttering in the cavity of his chest.

 

            “Nope,” Bucky grins at him.

 

            Steve begins to wonder if he’s hallucinating.

 

            “What are you doing out here?”

 

            “Is this where we live now?”

 

            “Yes.”

 

            “Oh.”

 

            Steve doesn’t dare sit down on the couch for fear that the apparition-Bucky will disappear.

 

            Bucky stares at Steve a little, before looking out the windows.

 

            “I haven’t seen the sun. They’ve never let me see the sun,” Bucky says simply, and turns his face towards the meager light shining in through the windows. The day is dreary and cold, clouds covering most of the sky, but there are patches where rays of light manage to peak through. Steve stares and stares and stares, drinks in the sight of Bucky in his entirety since he first took him away from SHIELD.

           

            He looks terrible.

 

            “Feels warm,” Bucky murmurs, closing his eyes.

 

            He looks disgusting, dark hair long and tangled and greasy, face pinched and thin, pale as a sheet of paper, bones more than visible through his skin, muscles soft with disuse. He sits with his face turned towards the window.

 

            Steve is quiet. Whatever is happening, he doesn’t want to see it end.

 

            “I know you’re not real,” Bucky says simply, and just like that Steve feels air rush out of his lungs.  _You’re a fool for hoping, Rogers._

 

            “Whatever you guys have got planned to use against me, must be something big.” Bucky’s voice is rough with disuse. “You’ve been kind to me for too long.”

 

            Steve bites the insides of his cheeks. It doesn’t do anything to stop the pressure building behind his eyes.

 

            “But that’s okay.” Bucky smiles and it hurts to look at, a ghost of Bucky’s old shit-eating grin.

 

“I forgive you, Steve.”

 

            Steve’s world blurs. He doesn’t bother wiping at his eyes.

 

            “I know it’s not your fault. But, I think I’m just gonna take what I can, ya know? Something to keep with me, before they start with whatever they’ve got planned next.” Bucky says.

 

            Bucky opens his eyes, and turns away from the window until he’s facing Steve, meets Steve’s eyes.

 

            And Steve lets himself hope. 

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism (good and bad) is very welcome (haven't written anything in a long time, eep). Un-betaed, so all mistakes are my own! 
> 
> Title is from the song "Set Yourself on Fire" by Stars.


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